Tuesday, July 28, 2009

She dreamed she pulled her face from my lipsand they tore off, clung to her cheeklike leeches which she immediately ripped from her face.Embarrassed by the unintended meannessof the gesture she put them in the palm of my handto have them sewn back at a later time.As she told me the dreamI finished brushing my teeth, spit the lastof the toothpaste and water into the sink.I was an argonaut in her life, but didn’t mind,love makes explorers of us all.The neighbor’s cat left gifts at her door.On the sidewalk, a broken pianoabandoned three days. A manwalking by stopped to play.When does the decay set in?

II

This is when the decay sets in.I wiped the toothpaste from my faceand kissed her but she pulled her face from my lipsand they tore off, clung to her cheeklike leeches which she immediately ripped from her face.Embarrassed by the unintended meannessof the gesture she put them in the palm of my handto have them sewn back at a later time.I held a towel to my bloody face,wrapped the lips in napkins.It will be years before she forgives me,years more before I learn what for.She returned to bed, sat upright,her knees pulled to her chest.Her hands, she waiteduntil I was gone before washing.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Great clowns move seamlessly between sadness and humor and understand the influence they exert on each other. A clown is grotesque, colorful, outlandish. Isn’t a poem? Though few people have ever hired a poet to read at a birthday party. In medieval Europe clowns could say things poets would be executed for. They probably still could.

I was in a bank in Hollywood, California. Standing in line next to me, a man with a white painted face, red rubber ball on his nose and shoes that extended six inches past the toes and curved up. Other than that the rest of his clothes were typical ¬¬- khaki pants and white collarless shirt. In most other cities the police would have been called. I’ve unsuccessfully attempted to write a poem about this on at three occasions. I wonder if a clown, who after reading one of my poems, ever attempted to perform in the smaller ring at a three ring circus while a man poked at a lion with a chair in the largest ring and chimpanzee juggled in the other . Clowns seems to exercise better sense than poets. And unlike poets, most clowns have little to say. Body language, expressions, and props carry the performance. The narrative is based in image. Often there’s music like in a poem, music does more than contribute noise.

A poet is like a clown except not nearly as brave.

“Writers are a little below clowns and little above trained seals,” John Steinbeck.

The white-faced clown is often the serious member of the troop. A sonnet would be this clown. A traditional sonnet is in iambic pentameter as a traditional white-faced clown has red ears. The similarities between clowns and poems are numerous. Prose poems would be auguste type clowns, he is the fool and lower, much lower, down the clown social scale than white-face. As there are forms of poems there are other forms of clowns.

I considered compiling a list of poems about clowns but what would be the point? Though I did compile a list of poets who at one time or another performed as clowns, make-up and all. The length of the list did not surprise me. Subsequently, each wrote to me asking not to be included on this list. This also did not surprise me.

The oldest clown registry in the world is the Egg Register in England; hundreds of years older than the International Poetry Registry and Administration in Geneva, Switzerland. Fear of clowns is called coulrophobia. Fear of poetry is more prevalent though without a name. I plan to create one soon.

There is much to be said for location. One of my favorite places to write is at the kitchen table at night. Something should be said about dress. What if put on baggy pants held up by suspenders and painted my face? What if I dressed like that while I wrote?

The man holding defibulator paddles hunched over the heart attack victim has bright orange hair, a bold stripped shirt and sad black lips painted on the bottom of his face. Saturday night, two clowns sit in a movie theater holding hands. In the jury box, three people in white-face with red ears and rubber noses. Without saying a word, image changes narrative.

The expression “clowning around” deserves more respect.

“A clown is like an aspirin, only he works twice as fast,” Groucho Marx. A poem is like an anti-depressant except it has more side-effects. A poem is liquor except the hangover lasts longer.A man wearing a white shirt with a large frilly red color stands at the back of a bus slowly making its way through the early evening traffic in Brooklyn. He juggles bowling ball pins. Everyone on the bus watches. Three rows up from him a woman is writing a poem in a notebook. Just a guess, she could be writing a story or the explanation as to why she’s leaving her boyfriend. I am convinced she was writing a poem. The way her face lifted from the notebook and momentarily started at the passing streets, a poet looking for an image. I missed my stop, was busy watching her write.

(First appeared in Quarterly West, University of Utah, No. 47, Autumn/Winter 1998-99, pg. 4; and is also in The Soup of Something Missing.)

Desperate Men

The strangers worked nineteen hours building a chimney on the roof, pausing only to wave at a curious neighbor or eat a sandwich lunch. It didn’t matter that the house already had a chimney, they built another beside it. No explanation was offered. All the while, the occupants of the house were held at gun-point at the kitchen table. Once the chimney was completed, the strangers tied up their victims and fled. Police found no clues and could only say it was the work of professionals. It was suspected this was the same gang that held a rural family captive for eleven days while they added a second-story extension to their house.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

(Appeared in the American Poetry Review Vol. 33/No. 1, Jan/Feb 2004 pg 31; and is also in The Soup of Something Missing.)

The Woman Not Wearing A Hat

For two dollars you could runyour hands through her hair.That’s what the cardboard signbetween her hands said.A hat at her feet collected the money.Wind pushing against her hair forced it to sway.I dropped my two dollars in and grabbedthe hair at the back of her neck.I closed my eyes; she closed hers.(I don’t recall whose eyes closed first.)It was the middle of the afternoon.Perspiration dampened her hair.I could feel people looking at me.For years I told people I only did itso she didn’t feel like she was taking charity.That’s not exactly true,for years I wouldn’t tell anyone.I ran my hand to the top of her head,turned and left before she opened her eyes.There’s no telling what a man is willing to pay for.

a little about me

I'm a poet, freelance ad guy, writer, and photographer. I worked for 14 years in the L.A. office of DDB as an associate creative director. I also teach poetry at UCLA Extension; and when I’m not teaching there I teach copywriting at USC’s Annenberg School of Communication. Previously, I taught copywriting at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena for 25 semesters, and at Otis College of Art for 3. My professional life as an ad guy is pretty intense and limits teaching to one night week, though I really enjoy it. I've been lucky in the advertising world and have managed to win many awards including a Gold Pencil from the One Show and a Cannes Lion. My first full-length book of poetry, The Soup of Something Missing, published by Bear Star Press, and The Invention of Fiction, my chapbook was published Hollyridge Press. Sarabande Books published my second full-length book, Death Obscura! My next book, I'm No Longer Troubled By the Extravagance, will be published by BOA next year.

My UCLA Extension Class

interviews

Poeticdiversityinterviewed me a while back. You'll also find an interview, and I'm using the word interview carelessly, on Alexis Orgera's The Bog Poetic.

Beth Spencer of Bear Star Press interviewed me for her blog. Take a look.

Advertising Portfolio

Take a look.

Commercial from the Super Bowl

This is a commercial I wrote that appeared on the Super Bowl and won advertising awards around the world, and is in the premanent collection of a museum. In a special on television commercials, CBS said it was the fourth funniest Super Bowl commerical of all time. Another network said it was the second funniest commercial of the year.